


Day One

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: As in not really but you know it's gonna happen, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Post-The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: The first day of the rest of his life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91





	Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a first chapter, but since the wip was driving me insane, I decided to do it this way. Meaning this will likely end up as the first fic in a series or the first chapter in a longer fic. Hold me to it.

The drive back to London is silent but for the sound of tires and the occasional passing car. Even the city life is muted behind the tinted windows, pushed into the background by the fog of exhaustion. The driver makes no move to rush them when she finally parks, simply letting the overhead light rouse her passengers enough that they can make their trudging way into the white house they now both occupy.

No words are spoken when they enter the foyer. Each simply goes his separate way, one up the stairs as slowly as if he were crawling, the other to collapse on the too-short sofa with his shoes still on. The streetlamps cast slits of yellow light through the blinds, but the sun could be blazing in his face and he would still sleep.

And so, he does.

* * *

When he wakes he doesn't feel rested and he wishes for sleep to take him again. He could do with another day or ten, but his stomach's complaints outweigh his desire to be comatose, so he drags himself off the sofa and shuffles to the kitchen, leaving his coat and shoes behind.

A small, happy shriek greets him when he passes the dining table. He briefly retraces his steps to give young Watson a pat on her blond head where she sits in her high chair, pilfering a few of the Cheerios scattered across its tray and tossing them into his mouth. Her bubbly giggle puts a small smile on his face as he heads back in the direction of food.

“Nothing for me, that's fair,” John says from her other side.

Sherlock glances back at his friend and the empty plate on the table between them. “But you're already so close to the ground,” he replies smoothly, dropping a piece of bread in the toaster, then another after a moment's consideration. He snaps the lever down with one hand and opens the cupboard with the other to retrieve the little jar of honey that John hasn't touched since... judging by the crystallisation near the lid...

He tosses the thought away as irrelevant and places the honey beside the toaster, slowly and systematically preparing a small breakfast for himself. Sniffs the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. Selects the sadder of the two remaining bananas in the basket and slices it, eating the softer pieces as he goes. Jumps half out of his skin when the toaster pops.

He eats across from the Watsons under John's watchful gaze. The doctor frowns at the combination of honey and banana and mutters something about peanut butter before turning his attention to his daughter, apparently satisfied at the three bites Sherlock has put into his toast.

“When did she get back?”

“Just before ten. Surprised Cath didn't wake you when she came in.”

“I doubt a train through your house could have woken me.” Sherlock examines the sugary swirls in his coffee cup in the quiet minute that follows. When he looks up, he can see the strain in John's face as he watches Rosamund play with his hands, and he remembers. “You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“But I do,” John says, his eyes never moving from Rosamund. “I almost abandoned her again. For good. It doesn't matter how bad that entire thing was. I was ready to leave her behind.”

“And I would have made it worse having already destroyed any semblance of a relationship I had with her godmother. We both nearly ruined her life. Well done, us.”

John sighs and slumps back in his seat, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Fine. God, I could have slept through the rest of the year.”

“I have to discourage that. There’s work to do.”

“Can’t you take at least one day off?”

Sherlock shakes his head around an accidentally large mouthful of toast. Taking a moment to swallow, he explains, “Mycroft will be seeing to Eurus today and will have made up his mind about telling our parents about her by tonight. That leaves at least one day for me to check in on Mrs. Hudson and the flat to get a timeline on repairs.”

“You can just say you don’t want to live with me again.”

The laugh that pulls from him is short but welcoming. In the short silence that follows, a thought comes to mind. “I could arrange for the bedroom upstairs to be separated into two. If you’d like.”

“Haha, no thanks. Nothing personal, but I’d prefer to raise my daughter where there are no questionable chemicals and disembodied toes abound.”

“Fair enough.”

“And what about Molly?”

 _Good question._ “I suppose I should at least text her to apologise.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You need to go see her. Don’t just text her. I don’t know when _you_ realised it, but I certainly knew the second time you said it. You can forget the stuff I said about Irene Adler. I’m an idiot. But not the part about being in a relationship. Molly is _here_ , she’s alive, she loves you, _and you love her_. Do something about it.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair and chews his lip. The flip of his stomach at John’s little speech feels less like guilt over hurting his friend and more like... terrified excitement. _Interesting._

“You know what?” John places one hand flat on the table and points at Sherlock with the other; his _decision made_ pose. “I’ll do Baker Street. You do Molly. I mean一 No, you know what I mean. I’ll see you back here tonight and we’ll compare notes.”

“My love life is none of your business,” Sherlock blurts, eyes wide. “Not that I’m predicting一”

“Neither is your flat, but I’ll take one to get the other. Deal?”

Sherlock scrunches his nose at John's insistence and takes another large bite of toast. He won't complain.

* * *

Climbing the steps onto the little porch feels like hiking up a mountain. Perhaps he should have listened to John when he mentioned taking a day off.... At least he only has three steps to climb instead of seventeen. Haha indeed.

He came as early as he could to avoid the gnaw of anxiety, but even the short span of hours has dulled that terrified excitement into a disquieting fear. He spent the entire cab ride here mulling over what he should say or do, but now that he's here, he finds himself drawing up a blank.

Sherlock looks at the doorbell after he presses it, at the little camera above it, and discovers that he is actually hoping she isn’t home. He is the one who bought the system and had it installed for her. A simple change to increase her security, her safety, for all the good it's done. The thing didn't even see Eurus coming with cameras of her own. Will he have to defend himself on that front as well?

_You didn't win. You lost. Look at her._

He fishes in his pocket and removes his keyring. Considers the little bundle he's acquired over the years: his own for the doors at 221, his lockbox, Leinster Gardens, his parents' cottage, Mrs. Hudson's spare, the Watsons' spare... Molly's spare.

Why would she even trust him with such a thing? Did she give it to him to stop him picking her locks to get in? Was it an offer to use her comfortable little house as a safe place if he needed it? It doesn't matter anymore. It’s something else now. Winding the key off the ring in slow movements, he holds it in the palm of his hand, trying for no reason to memorise the shape of the teeth, the weight of it, the dulled shine from being used so many times.

He nearly drops it when the door opens and he is face to face with Molly Hooper, whose greeting amounts to, “Oh.”

“You don’t have to sound so pleased to see me,” he attempts, cringing as soon as the words leave his mouth. “Sorry. Not funny.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

 _Another good question._ Sherlock tries to examine Molly’s expression and body language without appearing too obvious before he can think up the words to say. Scowling isn’t a great sign, and neither are the crossed arms. Eyes facing the street, wanting to look somewhere else, but still waiting for him to speak. So at least she’s giving him a chance to say something instead of slamming the door in his face. He inhales deeply, hoping he’s selected the correct course of action.

“We should... talk. It’s quite nice out if you’d be willing to join me on the porch. I imagine you don’t want to invite me in at the moment.”

Molly lets out a sardonic snort and steps across the threshold, pulling the door closed behind her. He doesn’t notice the lack of chairs until she walks past him to sit on the top step, glancing up at him to suggest he follow suit. She keeps her arms crossed atop her legs as he turns around, winding her key back onto the ring and dropping it into his pocket. He shrugs off his coat and jacket and sets them behind him on the porch as he takes his place beside her.

He can see her thinking, clamping down on her own emotions to prepare herself for what she already knows will be a long story. There’s a sense of comfort in the way she keeps her eyes forward instead of staring him down. But he wants to get past that, he realises with another excited lurch; he wants to be able to pass through her walls the way she passes through his, wants to know her inside and out like she’s known him. All the things she’s done for him, all the work they’ve done together, and he only now acknowledges just how much of her he’s been missing.

“Firstly, I need to apologise for our phone call yesterday. It was cruel, and I took something from you that was private and important and impossible to give back. I won’t excuse my part in causing you pain even though I was acting under duress, and I will explain everything to you, I promise.

“Secondly, and I realise this may be far too late to be worth anything, but I apologise for the way I’ve treated you these years. I am an utter bastard and I did not and do not deserve anything you’ve done for me or given me, except possibly that time you slapped me with all the force your corpse-flipping arms could muster, which was surprisingly a lot.”

That pulls a proper smile from her, however brief. She looks at him then, fully, and says, “Explain, then.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Wherever it feels right.”

Sherlock nods, flitting through his memories of the past few days to find the right place. Discovering the existence of Eurus seems a logical jumping-off point, so he begins there.

He isn’t sure how he can tell her of the events in such a simple, easy way when he feels no emotional detachment from them whatsoever. The disgust at Eurus’s actions, the fear of failing her experiments, and the agony of having his traumas ripped out of him after so long are all still there, but he has catalogued them, filed them away for safekeeping. Summarising and relating the information to Molly is _comfortable_. Of course he keeps the worst of it from her, but she doesn’t need that. All she needs is...

“Context,” Molly mutters when he reaches his conclusion. She swipes at her eyes to catch the moisture that started pooling there when he got to the part about Victor Trevor and reaches over to squeeze his knee, a not at all unwelcome feeling. “All that for the sake of context.”

“I’m not sure what to do for her now,” Sherlock admits. “I suppose that will be a conversation to have with Mycroft.”

“How is he?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m waiting on his call. He’s not one for idleness so he’ll be at Sherrinford now.”

“Okay.”

The smile that comes to her face when she looks at him reaches her eyes in a way that calms him immensely. They sit in companionable silence for a stretched out moment, Molly's thumb making little back and forth movements on his knee while she thinks. He, meanwhile, lets his mind wander aimlessly, the directionlessness of it a welcome relief from the hundred miles per hour he usually runs at. It's so relaxing that he would be content to sit there until the sun went out.

“Can I ask you something, Molly?”

“Sure.”

“When you said it's always been true, you didn't mean to say you actually liked me the day we met, did you?” The answer to his question comes with Molly's slight wince. “God. Why?”

“I... I think I knew you weren't as cool as you played?”

“Tragic.”

Molly's hand leaves his knee to halfheartedly smack him in the chest. “What about you, then?”

“Well as I said I destroyed the coffin with my bare hands so weighing the stress of the day against the probability that my feelings were deep-rooted and hidden like my childhood trauma which is evidently something I do more often than I should and it would be wise of me to seek out a therapist一”

“Sherlock.”

“Alright, it was after my first confrontation with Moriarty.”

Her eyes narrow in confusion. “When I introduced you in the lab?”

“What? No. After the swimming pool. I remember a brief moment of anger that he'd used you to approach me, but I chose to set it aside and threw myself back into the work. It certainly came back to bite me that Christmas.”

“You were jealous of yourself!” Molly teases, her grin bright. Sherlock joins in her amusement briefly, and the pair sober after a moment. “I know you're not ready for anything, right now.”

“I most certainly am not. But I would appreciate if you want to wait for me to be.”

“Why not, I've already waited half a decade.” Molly shuffles closer, winding her arm around his and resting her head on his shoulder. It's the nearest they've ever been to each other, the most they've touched, and Sherlock immediately feels a desire to one-up it. This actually wanting to be close to her must be the part John said would be fulfilling. He quite likes it. “I'll take this in the meantime.”

“I will have to go at some point.”

“But not now.”

“No.” He moves as much of his arm as Molly will allow to rest his hand atop her leg, and she somehow pulls herself even closer. It feels very nice. “Not just yet.”


End file.
